She felt uneasy. Was someone else here on the square tonight, and was that person carrying a flashlight or a lantern? This thought caused her to stop, for if that were the case, she would stand back beside the office building in the darkness until the person passed. Whoever it was would likely walk along from the direction of Mordecai House, past the stone marker in front of the Andrew Johnson Birthplace, and head toward the street.
She heard the furtive rustle of leaves and shrank back against the building. The sound grew closer, and she could feel the thump of her heart. Then there was a sudden flurry in the leaves just a few feet from her, and she almost ran. Instead, she stayed perfectly still. More rustling. Perhaps whoever it was had seen her and knew that in a moment she would be flushed out like a frightened bird from its hiding place.
Suddenly, something white darted from the blackness past her. She almost fainted until she saw with relief that it was only a large cat, probably chasing its prey. She stepped back on the path, and it was then, for the first time, that she looked squarely at the single downstairs window in the tiny house that was the birthplace of the seventeenth president. In that window was the source of her uneasiness.
Suspended there, as if held in the center of the small window by an invisible human hand, was a candle, its bright flame silhouetted against the blackness of the room within. It seemed to hang there interminably. Terry stood staring at it. There was no reason for anyone to be inside that house with a candle. Then, with the flame appearing ready to go out at any moment, the candle began to move away from the window, and within seconds it was gone. But not for long—a moment later it reappeared, this time in the second-story window.
Terry was genuinely frightened. Someone or something was in that house. She turned and ran toward the safety of the street. When she had reached it, she looked back, just in time to see the candle, until then burning steadily in the tiny upstairs window, go out as suddenly as if extinguished by a hand.
Was it a ghost? If so, Terry had seen enough.
That is the only time anything has happened to me that was eerie or out of the ordinary. I was later told that realtors had seen the same thing.
“By the way,” continued Terry, “Rosa Burt has an unusual story, if she will tell it. Rosa is the housekeeper at the Mordecai House.”
Mordecai House dominates the square. It was built in 1785 by a planter named Joel Lane, but it acquired its name and fame from one of the first Jews to settle in Raleigh. A gentleman of education and means, Moses Mordecai married the Lanes’ daughter, Ellen.
Mordecai and his bride retained William Nichols, a noted Southern architect, to remodel the house. Behind a Greek Revival double portico is a double-doored entrance hall and five large rooms. It was the earliest example of this type of architecture to be built in Raleigh.
Most historic homes are furnished with pieces donated or purchased that are compatible with the period of the house, but the furnishings here were actually the belongings of its early families. They lived daily with these portraits, pictures, books, and furniture. Perhaps their attachment to some of these things may be the key to Rosa Burt’s unusual experience.
Rosa is not a superstitious person, but she will never understand an experience that she had one morning at Mordecai House. There is a long hallway down the center of the house, and at the end of it is the library. On the right of the hall is the parlor; on the left, the dining room. She remembers exactly what happened.
“I was there one afternoon, cleaning when the house was closed to visitors, and I was just finishing up in the dining room. There I stood in the doorway, wiping down the woodwork, when I saw what I supposed to be one of the docents [guides] walking up the hall toward me from the library. The lady wore a long, black pleated skirt and a white middy-type blouse with a black tie.
“I stood and watched, puzzled, because they don’t usually come on days when I am cleaning. She didn’t even look over at me as she came down the hall. I remember thinking that she might at least nod her head or act like I existed, but she didn’t. She came walking along just like she owned the place, head in the air and looking straight ahead. Then, when she was right opposite me, she turned and went through the parlor doorway across the hall.
“While I was out in the hall working, I think I was expecting her to make some noise or come out. But all was quiet, and she did not reappear. Finally, I decided to see what was going on. I walked over to the parlor door and looked in. When I did, there wasn’t a soul in there. That room was empty as it could be. This gave me a real start, for I knew I had seen her go in, and, if she had come out, she would have had to pass by me. There wasn’t any other way out.
“You can imagine how this stayed on my mind. I knew all of the women who were guides, and she certainly was not one of them. But even though she wasn’t one of the guides, I knew her face was familiar.
“Finally, I thought, why, she looks just like Margaret Lane. She was a pretty thing, and I’d seen her picture many a time when I was cleaning.” Margaret Lane was an early resident of the house.
“Sometimes, even now, I find myself going
